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I'm not sure how it started; maybe someone gave us the video as a gift or I found my ancient audio cassette of the soundtrack. But by the time my daughter was two years old, she knew what “The Nutcracker” was, and by age three was watching several versions of the movie as often as I’d let her. She went through a three-year love affair with the name “Clara” and wore a tutu in public 99 percent of the time until she started kindergarten. We read “Nutcracker” books and she and her brother staged the ballet in their playroom (he hated portraying the mean brother, though.)
 

As she got older, we saw the show in Sacramento, ostensibly for her brother as an arts component to his home-schooling, but he ended up wiggling and repeatedly asking when it would be over while she sat completely still, enthralled with the production. The first year after the divorce, I couldn’t afford the Sacramento trip; the second year, I found a local production put on by a ballet school and the entire household went. It was a decent show, although quite abbreviated and the “everyone-can-dance” inclusiveness of the ballet school didn’t sit well with my ballet-purist daughter, who expected perfection.
 

Last year, she and I went to see “The Nutcracker” at the Gallo Center for the Arts. I bought seats as close to the stage as I could afford, and was surprised when we were seated in the very first row, in the orchestra pit. Surprise soon turned to dismay when I saw that the seats were a flimsy row of portable chairs that wiggled when anyone moved. Dismay turned to anger as a large group of redneck patrons of the arts showed up 10 minutes late, never stopped talking, and shook the row so much through their near-constant movement, it was all my daughter and I could do to stay in our seats. The show was excellent, though, and my daughter was very happy about dressing up with her mama and having a night at the ballet.
  

This year, the plan was to buy better seats in advance. Then the economy’s nastiness hit closer to home than anticipated and I was left wondering how to pay for Hanukkah gifts *and* daily expenses with less child support than expected. Like many divorced parents, I’m awash with guilt at times, but breaking a promise is the hardest for me to deal with. Divorce, to children, is the ultimate broken promise: We promised them a family, and we broke that promise when we became two families. I knew I couldn’t break this promise.

Today, when the reminder email came from the Gallo Center, I knew I couldn’t delay any longer. The cheapest seats ($25) turned out to be box seats, which the clerk assured me would be excellent for viewing the ballet. I slipped a copy of the receipt under my daughter’s bedroom door, so she can see it when she gets home from school today. I won't worry about the bills or what I'll have to trim from the budget when the credit card payment comes due. We’ll be attending a matinee this year, and this newly Jewish mama will be watching her daughter’s delight at a story that unfolds around a Christmas tree.